The sky had darkened into deep twilight, the last traces of orange and purple fading beyond the horizon.
Torches and small fires flickered to life around the village, casting dancing shadows across the clearing where the male elves continued their gruesome work.
Julius sat apart from them, perched on a fallen log at the edge of the tree line.
While the others dug through flesh and bone, searching for bullets with trembling hands and tear-streaked faces, he had simply walked away.
No one stopped him. No one expected him to help.
He was above such things or at least, he had been.
Now he sat alone, his face twisted into an expression of pure, venomous frustration.
Every single plan had failed.
Driving Luca out of the village? Failed.
Destroying his reputation? Failed.
Killing him? He had the chance.
The perfect chance. A gun in his hands, the hero's forehead pressed against the barrel, begging to be shot.
And he couldn't do it.
